Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Wynter
Twenty-two years later . . .
You know what they say about a man with a big building . . .
I giggled to myself and stopped. The top three stories of the four-story building were lined with big windows, and someone might see me laughing to myself alone in the parking lot. My chances would be over before they started.
I stared up at the imposing brick edifice and clutched my leather bag tighter to myself.
Foster House Whiskey. The building was at its tallest on one end—the old mine headquarters?
—and it was like another, newer building had been constructed right next to it.
The place had been purchased, restored, and converted into a distillery by its imposing CEO and owner when the man had been barely old enough to drink.
Myles Foster.
Myles, with a y.
I had a few minutes before I checked in. I peeked at my phone. Was I looking for a reason to abandon my foolish mission and go home to Bourbon Canyon?
A message from my sister Summer popped up. Still open.
My mouth quirked. There was a job opening at my family business. A marketing spot that was perfect for me, like it’d been made for me, because it had. But after months—I let out a sigh—years of stalking Myles Foster, I’d finally found my opening. Besides, I couldn’t go home. Not yet.
So I’d tracked down Myles. A sensible person would’ve emailed. Called. Written a message in the sky via plane. Of all my options, the plane would’ve been the easiest.
Myles Foster did not do people. He apparently didn’t care to talk to anyone, he emailed only when absolutely necessary, and he’d probably ignore messages written by planes.
The only contact information on Foster House’s website went to his PR team.
He had no social media, no dating profile that I could find, and no public phone number.
I’d already tried going through his company and hit a wall at customer service.
The boy who’d disappeared one night without telling me was elusive. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
I was curious about him. I had questions. But mostly, I wanted to…
I didn’t know what.
Mama’s words rose in my head. You’re as curious as a cat and bound to lose some fur like one, too.
Time to cater to that curiosity.
I left my sensible Honda hybrid SUV in the parking lot and strode to the entrance.
The heels of my ankle boots struck the asphalt in succinct clips, and the mountain breeze kept me from breaking a sweat in the early July sun.
One wall of the distillery was nothing but windows, making the stills visible from the outside.
Copper stills matched the metal brackets that attached the thick wooden posts to the walls and ceilings.
The entrance was on the office side of the structure. When I stepped inside, I slowed. The interior of the distillery was breathtaking. Wood, metal, and stone were artfully arranged to make the place look like the mountains’ centerpiece.
A guy in a sharp yellow polo shirt the same shade as the Foster House label smiled brightly at me. His name tag read Braxton. “Hello,” he said much too cheerfully for 7:53 in the morning. “How may I help you?”
Did they have that many visitors show up before the typical workday started? The distillery gave tours, but they didn’t start earlier than ten.
“I’m here for the temp position with Mr. Foster.”
His expression didn’t register shock. He’d known who I was before I’d walked in the door. “Yes. Mrs. Crane is expecting you.” He glanced at the clock, and dismay flickered in his expression.
“Is something wrong?”
His features snapped to neutral professional. “Absolutely not. You can take the stairs to the fourth floor or use the elevator around the corner.”
I eyed the steps. Four flights. The journey would be beautiful, but I didn’t want to huff and puff in front of Myles.
“If I cheat and take the elevator, will you hold it against me, Braxton?”
He smiled, revealing a dimple. “I won’t.”
Okay. On that foreboding note, I found the elevator and took it to the top.
An imposing grandfather clock faced the elevator when the doors slid open. More wood- and metal-accented brick made up the exterior walls. The office was posh with a rustic, Aspen-ski-lodge aesthetic that fit right into the whole playboy-bachelor vibe.
Was that what Myles was? Did he go skiing and leave a wake of satisfied snow bunnies behind him?
I’d snooped on the man. Stalked might be a better word, but snooping made my browser history seem less obsessive.
The same professional headshot circulated through all the magazines with the exception of a local spread that had one sole picture of him standing in front of a copper still with the impressive view behind him.
He’d oozed power from the page. His piercing blue eyes had been intense and his mouth a flat line. He looked less volatile than when he’d been a teen, but infinitely more powerful and commanding.
Flutters raced through my stomach, zinging from side to side.
I left the quiet safety of the elevator and found an older woman behind a desk, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.
The collar of her maroon silk blouse was high, like she chose her wardrobe by the century and not the atmosphere.
She glanced up and a wide smile spread across her face. I’d spoken with Mrs. Crane before, but this was the first time we were meeting in person. We’d gotten along well on the phone, and I looked forward to training under her for the week. She came around her desk, smoothing her black A-line skirt.
Good thing I’d chosen anything but jeans. My houndstooth leggings and pink cashmere off-the-shoulder blouse were almost too casual compared to Stella Crane. “Good morning, Ms. Kerrigan. Nice to meet you in person.”
“Wynn, please.” She’d called me Wynn when we’d talked. I extended my hand to shake hers, but she rounded to my side.
She put a firm hand between my shoulder blades and leaned in to speak quietly. “You’ll have to go by Ms. Kerrigan around here. Mr. Foster prefers the formality.”
I let out a short laugh. “It’s a distillery.”
She stopped abruptly, her expression guarded. “Why doesn’t that mean professional?”
Shit. I was going to get fired before I started. “Sorry. The distilleries I’ve worked in before preferred a casual environment. The staff was family.” Literally.
Stella relaxed and started shuttling me toward an imposing office that was walled off from the rest of the floor. “Yes, well. Mr. Foster is more…” She gave me an almost sympathetic smile as she poised her hand close to the door. “Well, just more.” She knocked.
“Enter.”
The deep vibration of his voice rippled over my skin, caressing my ear. That wasn’t the voice I remembered.
I didn’t notice the expansive office. My attention was centered on the man.
Broad shouldered in an ash-gray suit, he had his back to me as he stared out the window. His ink-black hair wasn’t the messy mass it had been when he was younger. Every strand had its place now.
The window faced the lot. How long had he been staring out? Had he seen me gazing back? Had he witnessed my giggle?
He looked over his shoulder, not quite seeing me. “You’re late.”
I recoiled despite the delicious things his voice did to my nerve endings. “It’s not even eight.”
Mrs. Crane jerked to look at me, her eyes flaring.
Oops. But seriously.
“Early is on time, and—”
“On time is late,” I finished, smiling. One of Daddy’s favorite mantras. Myles remembered.
“Do you make a habit of interrupting?” He finally turned, and my smart retort stuck in my throat.
The man was fine. His suit was cut perfectly, tapering from his wide shoulders to his waist. Those eyes.
They hadn’t missed a thing years ago, and they were harder now.
The clench of his jaw could crush diamonds.
Instead of a tie, the collar of his white dress shirt was open.
One button only, but enough to expose the strong column of his throat.
He was so tall that I’d be able to nibble along his neck while he—
“Ms. Kerrigan.” His voice was a whip crack.
Double shit. I wasn’t supposed to have sexual thoughts about Myles. I snapped my gaze up, meeting that flinty stare. “Sorry?” Had I missed something he said?
I leaned forward, unable to pull myself back.
I looked deep into his eyes, searching for recognition.
I wasn’t the little blond child who hated getting her hair brushed.
My hair was long and pin-straight but pulled back into a simple twist. The bangs—a bad decision after an even worse breakup—were growing out and tucked behind one ear.
Did he know who I was? People I’d grown up with called me and my sisters the Bailey girls, but the Baileys hadn’t adopted us yet when Myles had lived with us. Would he remember my last name?
His unyielding stare remained cold. No hint of recollection. No wish for reconnection.
A spark I’d kept lit for twenty-two years sputtered out, going dark. He didn’t know me? At all?
“You didn’t answer my question.” He almost seemed amused to have startled me into silence.
This couldn’t be the same Myles who’d read me stories about a bunny with his name.
I’d thought I didn’t know what I’d come here for, but that was a lie.
I wanted to get to know the guy he’d grown up to be.
I wanted him to remember me. I wanted to know if a scared little girl had made as much of an impression on him as he had on me.
“Ms. Kerrigan?” He enunciated each syllable.
Mrs. Crane folded her hands and tipped her head down. She was going to let him be a condescending ass to me. Was this attitude normal, or was it some kind of test? Either way, could I handle it?